Those Who Help Themselves
by Shiruba Fokkusu
Summary: Oneshot: "I want to tell him that God indeed helps those who help themselves, and God is just…busy." A character reflects on our favorite blackhaired protagonist. Not religioncentric, HBP compliant.


**A/N: **I am still working on my other story, but I was writing one day, and this popped up. I should really stop writing one-shots. I have a bunch rotting in my computer. Mostly, this is just reflection. If you read it, you'll know from what perspective it is. The title is taken from the proverb, "God helps those who help themselves". By the way, I don't know if the genres are right for this, so if you think another genre fits this better, tell me. Enjoy!

**Disclaimer: **This story contains characters created and owned by, including but not limited to, J.K. Rowling, Bloomsbury Publishing, Scholastic, Inc. and AOL/Time Warner, Inc. No permission has been given and since no money is being made here, no infringement is intended.

**Those Who Help Themselves**

Written by: Shiruba Fokkusu

* * *

We could have helped him. We all could have. Despite this, no one did.

Sure, they pretended to help him. In a way, I guess they tried hard enough. After all, how do you help someone who does not want help? He definitely did not want help. He thought he could handle everything on his own. Maybe he could.

He always helps himself. I wonder why God has not helped him. Even without the intervention of the divine, it seems he could do everything himself. Despite this, I know he needs us. By us, not only my family and myself, but the others in his life. He needs his friends and the people surrounding him on a daily basis.

As I sit here, thinking, I wonder what could have happened. I wonder what would have happened, had I cared more. Would he be the same? I hardly think so.

I do not know what to do. If he would not accept their help, he would never accept mine. I want to help. I want to help more than ever. I want to help him recover. I want to help him overcome his disasters. I want to help him see the good things in life. I want to tell him that God indeed helps those who help themselves, and God is just…busy. I want to help, but I do not know how.

I watch him every night he is here. He will disappear, weeks at a time, and then come back, bloodied and spent, another artifact clutched in his hands. This time, he brought home a cup or goblet of some sort. He did not think we cared, so he had taken to destroying those _things_ whenever we were supposed to be asleep. I had watched as he destroyed it. I had also watched, as he grew darker and worse every time he came home.

His dark hair is messy tonight, obscuring a troubled face. Even in sleep, he cannot rest. His mattress is new. I made sure that it would be comfortable, to make his nights a little better. I am not sure if he noticed. I cannot see his eyes, hidden as they are. His mouth is slack, but I know that at some point, it will be open in silent screams and pleas for help that he will not and cannot receive.

Sure enough, his eyebrows knit and his breathing becomes uneven. I watch in helplessness as he struggles with the demons in his nightmares. I want to help. I want to wake him up and show him that not everything is the stuff of nightmares. I know of what he dreams. They are of lost relics, darkness, and the red-eyed demon himself. His limbs jerk and I cannot watch him in this agony. His breaths come out in short cries and his chest moves up and down with his labored gasps. I can hear his cries, even though they are silent. I can smell the fear upon him and the sweat glistening on his ashen face. I want to hold his hand, show him a kind touch. The last time I tried that, he almost spelled my head off and said never to do so again. He does not trust me to touch him without hurtful words.

Slowly, he relaxes and his face is not as tense. His eyebrows loosen so that he seems younger. Reddish light filters in through the window, and I know this is my time to leave. I stand up and quietly pad through the doorway and into the hall. Silently, like all the other nights before this, I close the door and leave for my own bed. There, my disgruntled husband worries about us.

"He is fine now."

My husband nods and lets me sleep in. I see Vernon struggling with the idea of helping him, but he always arrives at the same conclusion. We must try to help him, whether he wants it or not. We have failed for the past fifteen years, and we do not intend to fail for however many years he has left on this earth. I know he will not outlive us. It is the nature of his existence.

A few hours later, I arise and walk over to his room. I watch sadly for a moment, taking in his serene face. Even though I see him every morning with this angelic expression, I cannot bear to see another mask upon him. Sighing, I put on my own mask and sharply tap on his door, yelling for him to wake up. I neither give him a kind word nor offer my assistance. The last time I smiled at him, he accused me of being one of those evil men.

He comes down the stairs, a cheerful façade planted determinedly. I sigh sadly. He should not feel the need to hide from us.

He goes about the same way every time he comes here. He acts as if there were no dark men after him, cooking and cleaning, reminiscent of his younger days. My son tries to help, and I see it. Dudley gives him space and does not try to antagonize him, not reminiscent of their younger days.

I do not know how to help. Do I offer a hug? That is nothing like me. Do I whisper comforting words to him? I do not want to lie. Do I let him continue his monotonous cleaning? I think that will do for now.

As I sit on this couch, I can see him without his masks. He is honestly happy here, the repetitive chores keeping him thinking of things other than fighting evil. His face is truly peaceful and I would do anything to see that forever. I find it ironic that the activities he loathed as a child were his only means of comfort. At the end of the day, he either leaves to destroy more of those evil relics, or soullessly drops onto his bed.

Tonight is the latter. After he finishes the few morsels he made for himself, he retreats to his bed. I quietly enter his room to continue my silent vigil like every other night.. Whilst I sit there helplessly, I pen a letter on normal paper to those friends of his. I used to send them to that old man, but my letters always came back unopened. His owl faithfully comes, as if knowing my intentions every time, and lets me clumsily tie the letter to her leg. I see her fly away, and I return to watching him. I do not think he notices me or the small ways I try to help and fail miserably.

God has abandoned him, and I want to help. I just do not know how.


End file.
